


Breathing Alone

by Evvaleave



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Angst, BagginSheild - Freeform, Fluff, M/M, Well okay I completely don't accept what actually happened, and since I'm so not committed to a long fic: this is what you get, post-the five armies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-08
Updated: 2015-01-08
Packaged: 2018-03-06 15:21:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3139205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evvaleave/pseuds/Evvaleave
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo will survive this as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breathing Alone

It started, as these things are want to do, with proximity. It is hard, actually it is nearly impossible to remain unobservant to the habits, personalities, and joys of another person when you spend nearly every hour of every day with them. Especially when they're tall, attractive and unspeakably focused on other things. It's just easier, to watch without fear of being noticed. 

So it started with Bilbo examining Thorin, discovering things that made him laugh, things that made his hardened face soften into a drape of kindness, discovering things that made Thorin quake with rage, things that made him twitch with discomfort, pout with confusion, and mostly things that made Thorin less of a stone prince, less of a dwarf haunted with duty and honor, with a seemingly hopeless task. 

It continued with a small kiss, one probably more of an accident than on purpose. After weeks of anger and resentment, after saving his life, after proving again and again his dedication to the company, it was only a small reward. A confusion during the nightwatch, a quick kiss goodnight, a week spent in confusion and desire, where it finally came to a head and exploded into life. Bilbo hadn't even known Thorin was watching him back.

And it grew. It grew into protection. It grew into shared bedrolls, gentle hands across faces, boosts up the rocky paths. It grew into jokes and laughter and warmth, into the casual physical affection of those in love. It grew past a distraction from the arduous journey they were facing into a promise, into a commitment. 

And then it died, like a firefly crushed beneath the finger of a god, it burnt out. The glowing warmth of ice blue eyes, the death of Thorin Oakenshield. 

And here he was, Bilbo Baggins of Bag End, alone and colder than the Shire Earth seeping through his bare feet as he stood, staring at the Dwarf symbol carved into the his red door, feeling iller the longer he looked at it. His adventure, and his contract, was over. He had burgled, and returned. But he did not feel as if it mattered. 

He opened the door, desperate to escape the symbol, the beginning of it all. His home was just as he left it, only covered with inches of dust, and it smelled rotten; his food had gone bad. Two years gone and no one touched his belongings. Almost a relief but more than ever an incentive to seek out his company, his noisy, smelly, goofy dwarves with their beards and laughter. He didn't want this, this lonely, quiet place with all it's books in order and the pictures hung straight on the wall. But he didn't want to be around others, everything about them more painful, as they laughed and lived and loved, as he would never really get the chance to do. 

But even that recognition of a life frozen in time was too much for him to bear so he forgot it, left it outside and went in, dropping his bags and the chest in a plume of dust, stripping his clothes, dwarven-made but still his silly little waistcoat, and collapsed into his bed which was too soft, too clean and he sighed again, admitting to himself that it might be easier to sleep in the flowerbed. But also, he knew he wouldn't sleep, not long enough to not feel tired anymore. 

He was so tired, tired from his adventure, tired from the war, tired from frightening magic ring in his pocket he couldn't quite get rid of. But mostly he suffered from the bone aching exhaustion of grief. And he doubted that it would go away anytime soon. 

\------------------------

The next day was not easier. Being home meant cleaning and what used to calm him only made him scoff with boredom. And boredom was dangerous, too much time to think, not enough to forget. He supposed it would take years, one never forgot love, not really, but he would make an effort to cope. For the neighbors, who'd seen him and turned pale. So he cleaned, and then he replanted his flowerbed, (He hadn't slept in it last night, he hadn't slept at all), and brought out his pipe to smoke. It was peaceful, like falling into an old memory. 

And the next day, when his old friends came to welcome him back, it was peaceful, and they were exuberant if suspicious to have him back. They welcomed him with pipeweed, tea invitations, and pleas to hear about his adventure. He never spoke about it, and never would. 

\-----------------------

Sometimes, most times, he had nightmares, nightmares he couldn't escape from, almost didn't want to escape from. Sometimes, they were of the war, watching Fili die, feeling the cold rush of fear slide through him, the echo of a cry distant and muted as he realized that he would die here as well. Sometimes, it was the giant spiders, their spindly black legs skittering in light taps as they attacked his fam- his company. Sometimes, it was the Goblin King, the gelatinous beast munching down upon the hapless dwarves, crunching on their bones and slobbering over the rest. 

But more often than not they were about _him_. They started as memories, making him laugh as they traveled, watching the rugged, dirty face stretch into delight. Frustrating him and seeing his blue eyes glimmer and heat. Memories of being with _him_ , how hard and sturdy he felt, the heat of his mouth, the scratch of his beard on soft unexplored skin. Memories of his promises: _I will make you happier than you've ever been Bilbo, once we're through with this, I would give you the moon, if you stayed with me, You are more precious to me than I can speak to you, I would have this quest last forever, so that you may remain with me forever._

And then it soured. His hands turned cold, his breath turned to rot, his skin paler and paler, his cheeks gaunt until he was a living skeleton, until he was rotting from within and death on the outside. 

The dreams were a poison and a prison.

\--------------------------

A month past and he was peaceful. He found a routine; clean, work the garden, smoke his pipeweed, and wait. His neighbors stopped by, and he spoke to them. His friends came for tea, and he served them. Children came to for stories, and he indulged them, just never his own. He was content, quiet, at ease with the world that happened around him. 

\--------------------------

When he found the acorn, he threw up. He left it where it rolled in the corner after he dropped it.

\--------------------------

Three months past, and he soured. He grouched at his neighbors, snarled at his friends, shouted at the children. He excused his behavior, the garden was fragile, he was tired today, he would make amends tomorrow. But tomorrow was harder than yesterday, and his heart never quite stopped aching and his bed felt empty and so did his heart. 

\-------------------------

He unpacked his travel bag. He'd left it, some bizarre, naive hope glowing in his chest, but that was dimmed, buried and crushed, underneath the rest. It took him less than thirty minutes and that alone made him weep. It was so significant what he'd done, who'd he'd been with, the dwarves he joined, the task he completed, the love he kept with him, but it was gone, evidence wiped away, documentation erased, and he was bereft.

\------------------------

Six month past, and he was alone. He kept his calendar, an x marked on the day he started his adventure and the other day inked over in black. He studied in dwarvish, stared at the map he found in Erebor, traced the warm fur of the cloak that had belonged to someone else. He thought maybe he was losing his mind, which he also thought was apt; he was abandoned by his family and his heart and what hobbit could be asked to withstand such things? He was of simple folk, they were not made for adventures, and this was his fault, so if madness was the price for his adventure than he would welcome it, because he had been more alive than any others. 

\-----------------------

He understood. He had stopped and had never resumed.

\----------------------

A year past, and he was quiet. His home was clean, his garden prospering. He had no friends left but that was okay, loving other's was difficult and his heart could not take anymore of it. His relatives sent him letters and he replied, the lies easier told without seeing them. He smoked his pipweed, watching the sunset and seeing others spent in the company of his family. He prayed for a visit from a too many rowdy crowd that never came and he quietly existed. 

\---------------------

He packed away the dwarven books and cloak and painted over the symbol etched into his door, in silent, miserable agony. 

\--------------------

A year and seven months past, and he was startled awake by a thunderous, commanding knock. His head popped out of the pillow, the blanket was tossed aside, and he groaned as he made his complaining way towards his door. 

"Whatever business you have with me could have waited till morning, I'll tell you that." He grumped, his voice rusty from sleep, as he tugged on his housecoat.

The door was heavy and wooden and he was scrunching up his lips to tell whoever it was to just bugger off, when he registered who it was at the door. 

Thick black beard, matching hair, hardy roughened skin, and blue eyes soft with warmth, glowing, thirsty as they devoured his face. 

A wave of pain washed over him, showering him in ice and fear, all of his nightmares, all of his dreams, come true and a noise, a thin sharp noise, ripped from his throat, and he slammed the door, backing away from it, and collapsing against a wall. A thin keening echoed from him as he shook, the tears dripping down his face. This was impossible, this was wrong, _he_ was dead, _he_ was buried among the kin of his fathers, _he_ was gone. 

Beyond the whirl of his dread, the ringing of his panic, he could hear Thorin beat his fist on the door, shouting his name, and finally the clomp of boots on his polished foyer. His thick dwarf shoes came into view, then his black trouser legs, his belted waist with the Orcrist strapped to it, then the thick muscled torso draped in royal finery and hidden by a black beard streaked with grey, then finally his face, nearly covered with all the hair dwarves bragged of, his beautiful face, new with a scar across his forehead and lines that weren't there before, but still the same eyes, same nose, his beautiful face and Bilbo's memory was a mockery of the real thing and he felt sick. 

He vomited, turned his head away from the dwarf king and expelled all that was in his guts, and then bile as he heaved again. A thick sturdy hand rubbed his back. 

"I grieved for you." Bilbo's voice was quiet, shaky, and the hand froze. "You were dead and I grieved for you."

"I came back." Thorin's voice was as he remembered, deep and full, a baritone that went straight to Bilbo's bones. "Because you asked me to."

"No, no no no. You're not real, nothing but a dream, no no no no."

Calloused hands on his cheekbones, turning him towards the apparition. Fingers stroked the soft skin, tracing never forgotten paths, and Bilbo felt himself heat up, his heart swelling as he met Thorin's gaze. 

"I am real, Bilbo, I am real and I am here." 

A flash of acceptance, an instance of joy, delight, love, all drowned in the righteous anger of the abandoned. He saw red, his hands turned to fists and he wrenched himself away from the warmth and comfort of Thorin. He stood, shakily, chewing his own bottom lip, nostrils flaring. He could feel the rage even in his hobbit feet. Thorin looked bewildered but mostly thirsty, like he couldn't stop looking, like he would never stop looking. 

"Real then?" Anger made his voice soft, dangerous. "Real enough to send me back here, alone, real enough to ignore me. How real do you think the letters you never sent were? How real were the thousands of envoys?"

"Bilbo-"

"No, stop. I won't be a part of this, I refuse. You may take your leave, Master Dwarf, I don't want you here." A lie. "Get out of my house."

"Bilbo please."

"Oh no, you did not have want of me in the past year, you could not possibly have want of me now."

"Listen to me, Bilbo-"

"You will leave. my. house."

"Enough of that." Thorin stood, back straight with equaling anger, riled into a fight by his little hobbit who refused to look at him. "I have suffered as well. I have died and healed, and I asked for you, for you! when they brought me back. But you were gone, you didn't even stay, not even for my burial."

"I couldn't bury you!" He felt nauseous again, at the very thought. "I couldn't leave you in the ground, how can you ask that of me?"

"Because I loved you!"

A vice clamped around his heart.

"Loved?"

Thorin seemed to see his pain, seemed to understand the sudden overwhelming panic Bilbo was thrown into, heard the fear in his small voice, and he softened himself, willing to do anything to get his hobbit to look at him. He crossed the space between them, entering the sitting room which was chilly with the night air but still warmer than the outside. He reached out to Bilbo, gently, laying a large hand on the slighter male's shoulder, drawing him delicately into the circle of Thorin's arms. Thorin breathed easier, the tantrum easing out of his body as he finally got to hold the hobbit.

"Still love, Bilbo." He murmured, cheekbones turning bright pink. "I will always love you."

Bilbo relaxed; there was nothing else to do. He was too tired for anger, to overwhelmed for a fight, and too blindingly happy to move away. 

It was quiet for a little while as they breathed together. Then, "You don't have to leave. You're always welcome here."

"Good, I'm afraid I have no other lodgings."

\----------------------

Thorin hasn't abdicated the throne. According to him, he'd healed enough to travel and immediately left to find Bilbo. Dain sits on the throne until Thorin returns.

\---------------------

Two years past, and they are not as they were. They fight, verbally bloody duels that end with slamming doors, threats, and spite that burn holes in their throats as they toss about words and ideas they never could really mean. Bilbo is righteous in his abandonment and Thorin is bitter about Bilbo's disappearance. Sometimes, it takes days to make up and Bilbo makes Thorin a peach pie just to see him smile and to get a kiss on the head from the stoic dwarf; sometimes, it takes weeks, and Thorin moves out, rides away from the Shire intent on returning to his Lonely Mountain and forgetting his hobbit, but then he remembers the way light shines from Bilbo's green hazel eyes, how easy it is to please him with just doing the dishes, and he turns back.

\--------------------

Thorin wakes from a nightmare, feeling the blade slide through his middle but watching Bilbo die, and he's quivering and shaking, jaw locked to keep from screaming but Bilbo's next to him, warm, safe, and drowsy from being woken up. Thorin slides closer, wrapping a well muscled arm around the small hobbit, who is happy to cuddle when he's half asleep. Bilbo tosses his arm across Thorin's stomach, drools onto his shoulder, and hums with satisfaction. Thorin sleeps better.

\---------------------

Two years and three months past, and they are working towards their happiness. They learn how to talk to each other without the desperation of an expected parting. They take turns doing the chores, sometimes Thorin cooks, sometimes, Bilbo dusts, but mostly they do their chores together, each taking half and meeting in the middle. They fight, still violent and cruel, but less and less as they learn to live beyond the moment because suddenly their lives are no longer in danger and they have an lifetime to be together. 

\--------------------

A loud, knock disrupts them in the bedroom. 

"Don't, don't answer it." Thorin begs, his hands twisted in Bilbo's hair as Bilbo's play with the drawstrings of his trousers, and Bilbo almost does, he is doing something much more appealing, but the banging increases in volume and pace until it become obvious it's more than one hand colliding with the door. Bilbo has a sudden premonition and shoots through the doorway, down the hall, skids across the foyer, and yanks open the door.

It is the company, so many beards, large noses, happy round dwarves who look more delighted than he feels. They don't wait for an invitation, Bombur sweeps him into a hug as the rest sweep into the house. Dori and Dwalin head towards the pantry, Nori, Bofur and Bifur take up residence in the kitchen, setting out plates and silverware, and the rest, excluding Balin head towards the sitting room, arguing the best way to start a fire. 

Thorin appears, half naked, which gets a resounding cheer from the company, and Bilbo turns bright red. 

\---------------------

Two years and eight months past, and they're joyful. They have a routine, but it's not so rigid that they aren't spontaneously taking small adventures out of the Shire. Thorin likes to visit Bilbo's neighbors for gossip about Bilbo when he was younger and Bilbo likes to complain that Thorin leaves messes in the kitchen, which is does, but which also make Bilbo happier to clean up. Thorin also abdicates the throne, but doesn't tell Bilbo for a month. 

\--------------------

"My young nephew will be coming to stay with us." Bilbo announces, not looking up from the letter he's reading.

Thorin frowns, "I'm not comfortable around children."

Two weeks later, and Thorin is teaching Frodo Baggins how to fist fight. The child tackles him and he falls, laughing, tickling the littlest hobbit into submission. 

\-------------------

Three years past, and they are content. Frodo stays weeks and leaves for weeks but consistently adores Thorin, who spoils the hobbitling much to Bilbo's delighted exasperation. The company comes again, to commemorate Fili and Kili's death, and they mourn in the manner of dwarves, with songs and legends and ale, until everyone only thinks of the good moments with the two young lost dwarves. 

\------------------

Thorin is kissing the back of Bilbo's neck as Bilbo washes dishes. Frodo left them this morning, and the house is finally empty and Thorin can only think of one thing. Bilbo can only thing of the same thing, but it's improper to do _that_ in the middle of the day, so he's trying to think of other things. It isn't really working. Thorin is bigger, and pressed against his back, his large hands toying with the buttons on Bilbo's trousers, and he smells so good that Bilbo has just been scrubbing the same plate over and over again.

He gives up, drops the plate into the sink splashing water everywhere and some small, very small part of him goes _damn, I'll have to clean that up later_ but a larger part of him is focused on kissing Thorin back, feeling his soft, warm lips, his perfectly itchy beard on his face, his hot hands grabbing his waist and butt to pull him closer. And he agrees, wrapping himself around the larger dwarf. Thorin backs up, intent on maneuvering them into the bedroom, or at least the couch, but he slips on Frodo's forgotten toy, and they both go down. 

"Damn that child." Thorin growls, once he's got his breathe back and it sends Bilbo into a peal of laughter. 

\------------------

Four years past, and they are happy and they are together.

**Author's Note:**

> Welp, that's all I've got. Hope it's not too overdone and/or too terrible. I will consider adding a chapter from Thorin's point of view.


End file.
